In the closet
by oflymonddreams
Summary: House and Wilson and their screwed-up, messed-up, verging-on-noncon, semi-abusive, seriously don't try this at home, relationship. Wilson wants House in the closet. And he's got the medical restraints to keep him there. Now at House vs God.
1. In the closet

_One-shot. Probably. No connection with the CollarRedux universe. No connection with reality. I do not own House and Wilson and I do not own a closet._

"I'd like to do something," Wilson says.

House looks up from the magazine he's reading, interested and feeling a spark of arousal. Some of their best evenings have begun when Wilson says *I'd like to do something* in that tone of voice.

Wilsom's standing with his hands on his hips, his feet set wide, and he's smiling. House's lips part in a brief, fascinated grin: this looks good.

"Okay," he says. "What?"

"I'd like to put you in the closet," Wilson says.

House laughs, thinking it's a joke. Wilson doesn't laugh. "We're already in the closet," House says. No one at PPTH knows about their relationship - well, no one knows about the fucking, or the sucking, and certainly not the bondage, or the spanking, or Wilson's large collection of whips, manacles, and gags.

"I'd like to put _you_ in the closet," Wilson says, and gestures with his head to make quite clear which closet he means: the one out in the hall. It's certainly big enough for a grown man, more or less -

"I won't be able to stand up," House says. The ceiling in the closet is just under six feet.

"That's okay," Wilson says: "you'll be sitting on the floor."

House looks at him. Wilson means it. He wants to do this. It doesn't excite House at all. But from the way Wilson is standing - most of all, from the bulge in his groin - it's going to be good for Wilson. Which is, ultimately, good for House.

"Sure," House says. He pushes himself to his feet. "How do you want to do this?"

Wilson takes his cane away - which is how all their best scenes begin - and holds his arm, escorting him to the hall. House is taller and stronger than Wilson: they both know that House's submission to Wilson is voluntary, but Wilson always enjoys the role play of force.

Wilson opens the closet door. "Get in there," he says.

House shrugs. It's just a closet, half-full of winter coats and the vacuum cleaner and junk. Wilson has moved stuff so that there is, just, space enough to sit down with his back against the rear wall. House sits. He looks up at Wilson.

"Give me your hands," Wilson says, and expertly slides on the cuffs: medical restraints, comfortable and very secure. Wilson uses them when he really wants House not to be able to move, not just for bondage, but to enforce his will. Wilson puts one of House's hands up against the wall and fastens it to something - there's a snap.

"Wait," House says, but Wilson already has his other hand against the other wall, and the same _snap_.

Wilson looks at him. There's a moment's pause. House could use the safeword. Some part of him wants to, right now - he's sitting on his ass in a chilly cupboard and his wrists are fastened to the wall either side, this doesn't feel like a fun way of spending the evening.

But House hates using the safeword. It always feels like a defeat. He hasn't been able to do what Wilson wanted him to do. Wilson is always nice to him after House safewords - but he always looks so disappointed, and House always feels like a complete jerk. Wilson's said several times that House can be a great sub when he wants to be - high pain threshold, real endurance and stubbornness and a will to please - and getting that approval from Wilson, that verbal commendation, is something House treasures.

"How long?" House asks.

Wilson smiles. He leans in and kisses House, on the mouth, his tongue thrusting in. "For as long as I want," he says. "Don't worry about it. You'll be quite safe in here."

When Wilson closes the door, it's dark. House closes his eyes. He remembers from childhood that if he closes his eyes and counts a thousand, when he opens them again he'll be able to see what ambient light there is. He's afraid there won't be much.

The closet smells of dry cloth and dust and cleaning products - there's a chemical scent of lemon, underlying that a tang of bleach. The restraints are comfortable. House can relax his arms and let them support him. The wall is hard against his shoulders. The floor is hard against his butt.

He finishes counting a thousand and opens his eyes. He can see a little light from under the door, and a tiny glow from his wristwatch - he can't see the time, but he can see where the light is coming from.

This isn't a turn-on. Maybe it is for Wilson, but it's not doing anything for House. It's boring and it's uncomfortable. It's lonely.

He thinks about calling out. He doesn't do it.

House usually likes it when Wilson puts him in bondage, because it means Wilson's uninterrupted attention. Usually fairly painful attention, but focussed.

Wilson likes to hurt him.

Alone in the dark, House grins. Wilson is such a good guy. House is such a jerk. But once they're home, Wilson pulls House's pants down and puts him over his knee and spanks him. Paddles him. Wilson says he does it because House needs the discipline, but Wilson can't hide that although when he does the over-the-knee discipline, he's always stern and controlled and he thrashes House for specific acts of jerkishness, being rude, being difficult, interrupting Wilson, stealing his food - well, Wilson's the one with the big hard-on at the end of every discipline session. Which House usually has to take care of. After all, it's his fault, Wilson says: his squirms and whimpers are what turn Wilson on.

That's standard. That's usual. House likes it. It's a structure to his day, to know that - unless Wilson has a girlfriend or a wife, in which case House's crimes get saved up for special occasions - at the end of the day, he'll get thrashed for everything bad he's done, and then he'll have to get Wilson off, and then - for being good about his punishment - Wilson will cuddle him.

House sucks in a breath. He likes that. He'd like to be there, right now, at the end of whatever this time in the closet is supposed to teach him, curled up on the sofa with his butt hurting and his mouth full of Wilson's come and Wilson's arms round him, with his face pushed into Wilson's shirt, smelling Wilson.

It's cold in the cupboard, and it doesn't smell of Wilson.

They do different things if Wilson has time.

Wilson likes to put him in bondage face down on his bed, beat him till he cries, and fuck him till he screams.

Alone in the dark House can admit that: Wilson can hurt him till he actually cries. And House likes it. He likes the loose, warm feeling of being hurt so much by someone who loves him and cares for him. He doesn't like it at the time - every time, just before he gets to the point where he's crying - he's usually screaming curses at Wilson.

Maybe Wilson should gag him more often.

He isn't gagged right now. He could yell. He could yell the safeword, and make Wilson come running and let him out. It's chilly and it's dark and it's lonely. House isn't sure how long it's been, but it wouldn't make any difference if he knew, because _as long as I want_ could be anything from half an hour to all evening. All night, even. Wilson's left him in bondage all night before. Though before, House was trussed up on the bed, and Wilson was asleep next to him. He'd been helpless as a soft toy, but Wilson had snuggled him.

Maybe Wilson will take him to bed after this and cuddle him. He could gag House if he wanted: maybe he will do that.

Wilson likes it when House cries. House tugs at the restraints. They're firmly attached to the wall.

"Wilson?" House says out loud. Not very loudly. He wonders if Wilson is outside in the hall, if he'll hear House talking in the closet.

Wilson doesn't fuck House every night. He claims a suck every time he disciplines House, which is good, because House likes it when Wilson grabs on to his head and pulls him down on his dick and fills his mouth and throat. And he will sit and hold House on the sofa, for hours even, petting him and kissing him. Sometimes a little smack in the middle of the petting, but just because he likes the way House's eyes go wide and House jolts with surprise. Wilson tells him he likes the look of House surprised.

House wonders if he looked surprised enough to please Wilson when Wilson put him in the closet.

"Wilson?" House calls again. Not too loudly. If Wilson is standing in the hall, he might hear. He might think House wanted something, and open the door and ask. House could ask for a drink of water. Or a piss. He doesn't quite need to piss - yet - and anyway he's good at holding it. All he really wants, right now, is light and to see Wilson's face.

If he calls too loudly, if Wilson is off in the sitting room or the kitchen, and Wilson hears and thinks something's wrong, even if House doesn't use the safeword, Wilson will be disappointed.

Wilson wants House in the closet. In restraints, in the closet, in the dark. He doesn't want House to safeword out - he never likes it when House uses the safeword. He won't.

Maybe Wilson is waiting for House to beg.

Wilson likes it when House begs, and yet it's something House can't bear to give him very often. He can cry wordlessly when Wilson hurts him enough, and he can scream when Wilson fucks him, but using words - actually begging out loud - that's very difficult. It makes Wilson happy, though. And it would get him out of the closet.

"Wilson?" House swallows. He tries to frame the words. "Let me out?"

The closet is dark and cold and House's ass hurts. His leg doesn't hurt yet, it's got a kind of ache that says if the pain wasn't cushioned by a Vicodin and a glass of bourbon, it would be hurting. But it's not, yet, and Wilson saw him take the Vicodin and drink the bourbon and Wilson knows how long that cushion lasts. Wilson won't leave him in here if he starts screaming because his leg hurts.

Wilson wouldn't do that to him. House knows he wouldn't.

"Wilson, please let me out," House says, quite quietly. Maybe he can say it a bit louder in a little while.

The closet is dark. House tilts his head back, against the wall, and his face is full of cloth - his winter coat. He rubs his face against it, wishing it was Wilson's coat. Wishing the closet smelt more like Wilson. The closet isn't warm but House is fully clothed, it's fine, he can't catch cold like this, it's fine.

"Please let me out," House says experimentally. He doesn't think it sounds very convincing. If Wilson wants him to beg, he should probably put a bit more passion into it. He wants this to please Wilson. Otherwise he's just been cold and bored and lonely for nothing. If he can please Wilson, it's not all for nothing.

"Please," House says. His tongue catches on the word. "Please, Wilson, let me out."

"Please," House says again. The closet is dark and cold and lonely and his ass hurts. He tugs at the restraints. Maybe he ought to try being quiet for a while.

So he tries that for a while. It's still dark and still cold and still lonely. He's thinking about Wilson sprawled out comfortably on the sofa, watching TV, probably with a beer and a sandwich. House wants to be there with him. He'd sit on the floor by the sofa and be grateful. Though he'd like to be on the sofa, cuddled up with Wilson, feeling Wilson's hands on him.

Once when Wilson was mad he put House over the back of the sofa, and made him stay there, face down, his hands buried in sofa-cushions, as Wilson went in and out of the kitchen and the bathroom, getting ready for bed. He pulled House's pants down and whipped him when he stopped being mad: he told House he didn't want to whip him when he was angry.

Being whipped hurts. House wishes Wilson was hurting him now.

Maybe Wilson is mad at him. Maybe he wants House out of the way. House tips his head forward and stares down at the shadows of his body. He doesn't think he's done anything lately to make Wilson really mad at him, but who knows for sure?

"Please, Wilson," House says. His voice is shaking. "Please, Wilson, let me out. I'm sorry."

There's no answer. The closet is awfully quiet. House tugs at the restraints again. "Please," he says. "Please, Wilson, I'm sorry."

But he doesn't say it very loudly, because he's afraid Wilson will get really mad if he has to let House out before he wants to.

"Sorry," he says again. "Please. Sorry. Please, Wilson. Wilson." He's shaking. "Please. Sorry."

When the door opens, the light seems blinding. House blinks and looks up at Wilson.

Wilson is unfastening the restraints. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you out of there." He helps House move. House clutches at him. Wilson feels so good. Warm. "Sorry," House says. He needs Wilson to know he means it. "Sorry. Please."

"Okay," Wilson says. He doesn't sound angry. He helps House down the hall. He lets House piss, and takes him into the bedroom. House's hands keep trying to steal touches of Wilson. "Sorry," he says. He can't help it.

Wilson strips House and puts him on the bed. He pulls a cover over House, and gives him two Vicodin and a glass of water. House steals a look at the clock. It's nearly eleven. Wilson left him in the closet for three hours.

Wilson gets into bed with him. He's going to stay the night. House realises that means he could have left House in the closet for longer. He let House out.

"Thank you," House says.

Wilson's arms go round him. He nuzzles the back of House's neck. He pulls House in against him, spooning him. "You're good," he says. He isn't hard. Maybe he jerked off while House was in the closet.

"I love you," House says, because it's important Wilson knows that. He feels Wilson nod.

"You know why I did that to you?" Wilson asks.

All House's thinking pauses. He doesn't know what he did that got Wilson that mad. He's just grateful Wilson't isn't mad at him any more.

"Sorry," House says, hoping this is the right thing to say.

"Everything I do to you is something you enjoy," Wilson says. "Everything I do is for both of us."

House wonders if this means he was supposed to enjoy the closet. If Wilson will be mad again when House says he didn't. Maybe he can persuade Wilson he did. A little.

"But when I put you in the closet," Wilson says, "you didn't enjoy it."

"Sorry," House apologizes again.

Wilson's arms tighten round him. "No, it's okay," he says. "I liked having you in there. I like knowing you're mine, and when you're safe in there, I know I've got you. I thought about you all evening, knowing I had you like that. It was great." He sounds pleased and satisfied. "And it was just for me. I like that." He kisses the back of House's neck. "I'll want to do it again."

"You're not mad at me?" House asks.

"No," Wilson says.

"Good," House says. He stares into the comfortable warm dark of the bedroom. "I don't think I'm ever going to like you doing that to me."

Wilson's hand pets his stomach. "That's not important," he says sleepily. "You'll do it for me, won't you?"

House doesn't answer. But he doesn't have to. Wilson knows the only possible answer is yes.

-----

_The idea just came to me (when I was reading Alex51324's Teddy House story on livejournal, Chapter 16, if you MUST know) and I thought, huh, in what kind of sick relationship would Wilson do that to House when House didn't enjoy it? Well... then I had to write the story where they HAVE that kind of relationship._


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, I was planning for this to be a oneshot. But then wrote a sequel, "Closet Time", and I was working on a House/Wilson/Amber sequel-of-sorts "With All The Love In the World", and I started thinking about how this would go the first time Wilson actually moves in with House..._

If Wilson was going to come round and punish House, he'd have done it hours ago on his way home from work. He might still come, but it would be later, after he and Julie had had dinner and a fight.

House could call him. He did that, sometimes. He was making a peanut butter sandwich in the kitchen, turning over in his mind whether Wilson would be more inclined to give him a licking for the comment about the chocolates or for being mean to the widower.

The widower had kicked him in the balls, which was something that Wilson very seldom did, so Wilson might think he'd been punished enough for that.

There was knocking at the door. House picked up his cane and limped over. Wilson had mislaid his key.

Wilson had a suitcase next to him. House took that in, and what it meant, just as Wilson said "Could I stay with you for a few days?"

Knowing he would pay for it, House said unsympathetically, "You idiot. You told her." Wilson had been having an affair with someone: the last ass-blistering beating House had got from Wilson had been when he tried to find out who the affair was with.

("I own your ass," Wilson had said, punctuated by loud smacks of his newest wooden paddle. "You don't own mine.")

"She told me," Wilson said.

House could only stare.

"Things have been crappy at home lately," Wilson said, almost apologetically. "I figured I wasn't spending enough time with her. I figured..." He sighed. He sounded angry. "Turns out you're right, it's always about sex. She's been having an affair."

House stepped back, feeling the familiar clench and twist in his gut. Wilson, staying here. "Want a beer?"

Wilson smiled, picked up his suitcase, and walked in. House closed the door behind him.

Wilson hung up his overcoat in the usual place. He turned to House, and before House knew it, had taken his cane away.

"I think we should get some things clear from the start," Wilson said. He was still smiling. "Don't you?"

House's guts roiled. "Yeah..." he said.

Wilson opened the closet door. The fastenings were still there: Wilson checked them again to make sure they were secure.

"I was just going to have something to eat," House said.

Wilson nodded, looking happy. "I'll order take-out." He gestured at the closet. "In you go."

House swallowed. He liked it when Wilson looked happy. He didn't want to see that look turn to disappointment. But he didn't like the closet. And he was hungry.

"House?" Wilson said, inquiring, almost sad.

House got down on the floor and pushed himself into the closet. He lifted his arms obediently to be fastened to the walls. Wilson closed the door, and left House alone in the dark.

House closed his eyes. Counted to a thousand. He did this every time he was left in the closet.

He couldn't hear Wilson. Probably Wilson was moving around, making himself at home, pouring himself a beer.

Music. He couldn't hear it any more. Wilson could have turned the CD player off, or could be watching TV.

Food. He'd been looking forward to sinking his teeth into a peanut butter sandwich.

Beer. His hands twitched. He'd wanted a beer.

He was sitting alone in a chilly closet in the dark. He wanted Wilson.

He heard someone knock at the door. House froze. He had a sudden vision of all three of his fellows, and Cuddy, and maybe his poker night buddies, at the front door. Wilson would let them in. House heard Wilson coming down the hall to the door, and flinched, waiting for the closet door to be thrown open, voices saying his name.

They'd know about him, then. They'd know what he was like. That he belonged to Wilson.

House closed his eyes. He tugged at the restraints. Safewords wouldn't do any good. Not if Wilson wanted the others to know what he was like. That House got punished by Wilson, for being bad.

Foreman would want to punish House. House shuddered, hard. Wilson cuddled him afterwards. Foreman would just beat him. What if Cameron wanted to stop Wilson from punishing him? What if Chase wanted Wilson to punish him? Wilson and Chase hung out sometimes. What if Wilson liked Chase better than House, and cuddled Chase afterwards? House was shaking.

The front door opened. Wilson's voice, muffled, was just audible through the door. Oh god. House swallowed. Wilson. Please. Safewording wouldn't do any good, any more.

The front door closed. Footsteps went away down the hall. House opened his eyes. He couldn't tell from the light under the doorway if there was still someone in the hall. He tugged at the restraints: they held firm. He closed his mouth. He didn't dare make a sound.

The door opened. House mewled and shuddered back against the wall. It was a moment before he could realize Wilson was alone, unfastening his wrists, tugging at his arms to get him to move out into the hall. They were alone in the hall. House wrapped his arms around Wilson's legs as high up as he could reach and pressed his face into the fabric of Wilson's pants, rubbing his nose and mouth against the cloth, whimpering.

"Come on," Wilson said, his voice gentle. "Come on, that's a good boy. I ordered Thai. Come on, House, on your feet." He helped House up and let House lean heavily on him as they went down the hall. He put House down on the floor by the sofa, and sat down. There were take-out cartons on the table, and a single plate, knife, and fork.

Wilson hand-fed him from his plate. House opened his mouth, and Wilson pushed food in: he ate his own meal with knife and fork, but he picked up food from his plate and tucked fingerfuls into House's mouth, letting House lick at his fingers. Food always tasted better from Wilson's plate.

When they were both done eating, House glanced up at Wilson for permission, and getting a nod, pulled himself back up on to the sofa. He put his left foot up on to the coffee table, and pulled his right foot up to rest beside it.

"You love this," Wilson said.

"Oh God, we're not going to talk about our _feelings_, are we?" House said.

Wilson put his hand on House's right thigh, well below the scar, and squeezed, firmly. House's stirring arousal went from a mild throb to a hard erection. "No. I'm going to talk about _your_ feelings." Wilson smiled. He let go. House's hips jerked, and he squirmed. "You love this."

"Yes," House said, dry-mouthed.

"When you need to be punished," Wilson said, "I'll punish you. But I get to decide when you need it. You needn't think this is going to be some wet dream where I'm always handling you. If you're a nuisance, if you get too demanding - I'll put you in the closet. You can spend a long time in the closet, you know."

"Yes," House said. He was still erect. He squirmed, involuntarily.

"So are we clear?"

"Yes," House said. He met Wilson's eyes, and nodded. "Clear."

"Now, get over my knee."

"What?" House stared.

"Don't you think you deserve to be punished?" Wilson was smiling. "Get your pants down, House. Let's go over what you've done wrong."

Jeans down. Wilson took hold of his undershorts by the waistband, and tugged them down. House positioned himself over Wilson's knees, his right leg supported by the sofa, clinging to Wilson's ankles with both hands. Wilson's expensively-clad knees pressed against his belly: his erection rubbed against Wilson's thighs.

Wilson lectures House while he spanks him. House can hardly listen, even though he knows he should. He squirms his ass to meet Wilson's hard hand, wriggling under the punishing slaps. Wilson means him to feel it, even just a spanking, means him to know he's got the whacking he deserves. Wilson thinks he deserves to be punished. Wilson wants him to do better in future. Every smack makes House feel like he can be a good boy, if Wilson wants him to be, if Wilson will just keep spanking him, just like this -

House comes. He can't help it, and Wilson only gives him a little routine scolding, a few more smacks for being a messy boy. All of House's wriggling has given Wilson an erection, and House knows what he owes Wilson for correcting him: he slides off Wilson's lap on to his knees, and when Wilson opens his pants, House dives in and gives Wilson a grateful blow-job. He'd stay there on his knees with his mouth full of Wilson's softening cock, swallowing down Wilson's come, except Wilson knows his bad leg starts hurting too much if he stays on his knees too long, and helps him up on to the sofa again.

House clings to Wilson, his arms round Wilson's torso, his face buried against Wilson's stomach. Wilson pets his head, fingers tangling in House's hair. He's been bad, and he's not allowed to be too demanding, but right now, tonight, Wilson likes him and House is happy.

_Well, maybe this wasn't a one-shot after all! please r&r! _


	3. Poker Night

**Poker Night**

_Takes place the Thursday after "House vs God". One more episode in House and Wilson's screwed-up verging-on-noncon don't-try-this-at-home relationship. Do I have to warn for kink if it's all happening inside House's teeming brain?_

If House had thought about it, he'd have expected to be punished for shouting at Wilson during the Thursday night poker game. But if he'd thought about it - and he was too busy thinking about Wilson stupidly involved with a patient, hazarding his license and his career - he wouldn't have expected this.

He'd been playing poker for years with Dry Cleaner, Tax Accountant, Guy From The Bus Stop - he was Piano Man. They'd switched to using his place after the local bar started getting visitors who talked very politely in Italian accents about how the bar needed a gambling license. The bar manager had told them to get used to staking chocolate or matchsticks, or get out.

He wouldn't say they were friends. But it was kind of interesting, having people around at least some of the time who weren't Wilson but who didn't actually seem to dislike him.

"What do they call you?" Wilson asked.

"Piano Man," House said. He wondered why Wilson wanted to know.

_*HouseMD*HouseMD*HouseMD*_

Wilson showed up fifteen minutes before the others were due to arrive. House was surprised.

"Listen, I told them your real name's not Wilson, and they probably won't even remember you three months from now if you were just a one-night drop in."

Wilson didn't answer him. He took House's cane away, and reached for the closet door. House looked at him in disbelief.

"No," he said, his voice shaking.

"House," Wilson said, dropping the cane and kicking it away, taking hold of him by the shoulders, "you know what you did last week at poker night? You tried to humiliate and embarrass me in front of your friends. You know you deserve to be punished for that."

"Sure," House said, in resignation. He knew he did deserve it. "But can't you wait?" He had fully expected that now his case was over, Wilson would give him a thorough paddling, maybe a caning too, for bad behavior. His bottom twitched as he thought about it.

Wilson gave him a very disappointed look. "House... you know that's not how it works. I decide how you're punished. I decide when. Do you want to safeword? Get out of being punished for what you did?"

"No..." House said, uneasily. "But the others... they'll be here in about ten minutes. You won't have time."

Wilson glanced pointedly at his watch. "Good. And they normally stay till when?"

"Around eleven," House said. "We finish out the last hand. Everyone's gone by midnight." He wants to suggest Wilson come back for then. Wilson's hands have moved down his back and are rubbing over his jeans-covered bottom. "You could cane me." His voice shakes.

He really doesn't like getting caned. He likes it after, when Wilson is rubbing the marks the cane leaves and scolding him gently about how he should learn to be a good boy.

Wilson pulls down his pants and his undershorts, in one direct move. House gasps, he's so surprised. "I think I will cane you," Wilson says. "Later." He reaches into the closet, finds a bag hanging from a hook, and pulled out a butt plug and some lube. He takes House's arm and turns him round - House is surprised into compliance, he really hadn't expected this - and submits as Wilson pushes lube up his ass, then the plug. It's not a very big plug, and its's flanged so that it can't disappear all the way up House's butt. He pulls House's pants up again afterwards.

"You want me to wear this during the poker game?"

"In a manner of speaking." Wilson pushes him gently towards the closet. "Better get inside now, they'll be here in five."

"You're not going to leave me here all evening," House says. His voice rises. He sounds panicky, he knows, he trusts Wilson, he shouldn't panic.

Wilson fastens House's wrists to the walls. He leans in and kisses House on the mouth, just as he always does when he puts House in the closet.

"Well," he says, and he's smiling. "I think you should hope I _do_ decide to leave you in here all evening, House. Think about what could happen to you at a poker party, if I took you out."

He closes the door. House blinks and stares. The plug is a noticeable presence inside him, filling him. Preparing him to be easily fucked.

What could happen, if Wilson took him out?

The closet makes him compliant. That's why Wilson does it to him. A big enema makes him compliant too, but that's a lot of trouble for Wilson, whereas - as they both found when Wilson was living with him - just putting him into the closet when he's a nuisance, when he gets too demanding, means Wilson can have some time on his own without House bothering hin, means House can get a lesson in remembering that he belongs to Wilson.

There's a knock at the door. House shakes. He wishes he was gagged. He understands what Wilson means to do. The sound of voices. Dry cleaner guy, right on time as usual. They're talking, in the hall, he can hear their voices, though after they move away from the closet door he has no idea what they're saying to each other. Wilson could even be saying...

House opens his mouth in a silent, terrified shape. Only a lifetime of training in not screaming keeps him quiet.

"I've got Piano Man in the closet. He's wearing a butt plug to get him ready."

That's what Wilson meant. They play for cash on poker night - not much, not by House's standards, nickel and dime bets that could add up to a pot of fifty dollars at the end of the night. They don't drink much - everyone except Tax Accountant will bring or drink beer. But no one gets buzzed. Poker is too important for that.

Guy From The Bus Stop arrives next. He's surprised to see Wilson. They talk briefly in the hall. Tax Accountant arrives before they've finished the conversation. House presses himself back against the closet wall. All Wilson has to do is pull the door open and they'll see him. Dry Cleaner guy will join them. They'll know what he is to Wilson. They'll _know_ he's a bad boy who deserves to be punished.

Wilson could take House out of the closet. Put him over the back of the couch, pull his pants down. Any time this evening. Poker is too important for them to stop the game, but everyone gets up once in a while to get a drink or have a whizz.

Wilson will paddle him till his butt is red and stinging. Cane him, a few times, leaving marks. He will be left there, his bottom bare and exposed. Crying helplessly. And any of them could take out the plug and use his ass.

House squirms on the plug filling him. It is shorter and not as thick as Wilson's cock. He is, as Wilson reminded him repeatedly when he first took House in hand, an anal slut: he loves to get fucked up the ass. He loves being penetrated and filled. Wilson first got him to ask for the discipline he needs by withholding ass-fucking. Wilson knows how much House loves getting fucked; what if Wilson thinks House would enjoy being the treat for the poker game?

House can hear voices from the other room. If he makes a noise, they will be able to hear him. He can't hear words, just the sound of four people having a genial good time. He wants to be there. Not bent over the sofa with his ass burning, waiting to be fucked. He wants to be _there_, a part of the evening.

He would like to get fucked by strangers again. House leans his head back. He hasn't done that in years. Not since the infarction, the scar on his leg. Who'd want to fuck him if they saw that, except for Wilson?

Wilson said it wasn't safe. Said that the idea wasn't safe. He didn't say no one would want to do it to House now, he was nicer than that. He said he was there to take care of House, and he would punish House for anything so risky. But it had been good to bend over and spread his legs and open up his well-lubed butt to all comers; hard cocks pumping inside him. Of course everyone wore condoms, but House knew that if someone had tried to fuck him without a condom, he wouldn't have done anything to stop them. Wouldn't have been able to.

Wilson would make sure they didn't fuck him without a condom. Wilson is the only one who gets to do that now. He'd be bent over the sofa, party favor for the poker group, and they could all fuck him, if Wilson took him out.

House opens his eyes again. He's still in the closet. The door is closed. It's dark and chilly and the plug up his ass is splitting him. He drifts out of it, briefly, thinking about if Wilson fastened the plug to the floor of the closet, if House was always planted on it when he was sat in here. He wriggles, feeling the plug shift inside him, turning him on. If they took him out, he'd get fucked. He was being prepared for that, opened up and lubed. Wilson always takes care of him.

Voices from the sitting-room. A loud laugh. Dry cleaner guy. They're all getting up, getting beers, walking down to the hall to the bathroom. House freezes in the closet, tugging helplessly at his bonds. he was drifting, dreaming, lost in imagination about being made to be the poker group's fuck toy. But if they opened the door, they would really see him. They'd really know.

Footsteps, coming down the hall. The door opens. House's mouth opens in a silent wail. Wilson is there. House mewls with panic and Wilson leans in to touch his mouth. Just touch it, with his fingertips, but House's mouth opens and he tries to kiss and lick Wilson's fingers.

Wilson smiles at him. He doesn't say anything to House, but his smile says _Good boy_. He closes the door again.

"Please," House says softly. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like what it's doing to him. He belongs to Wilson, he's in the closet because he belongs to Wilson. But he can't get out. Wilson can't let him out without showing him off to the poker group guys. They'll all know, if Wilson gets him out of the closet. He won't be part of the poker group any more. He'll be their toy. Like he's Wilson's toy.

He can hear the noises of a good game. They've had their comfort break. Wilson and Tax Accountant and Dry Cleaner and Bus Stop Guy. They're sitting round the table playing cards. House squirms on the plug. He's in the closet. Where he belongs. He wants to be sitting at Wilson's feet. If wilson took him out. If he was under the table, at Wilson's feet, in the darkness there instead of the darkness of the closet. Warm darkness instead of chilled darkness.

They wouldn't need a comfort break if he was under the table. They would just push his mouth from cock to cock. He'd be plugged to stop himself making a mess. Wilson doesn't like it when he's messy. He would learn the taste of each man's cock. He wouldn't be allowed to suck them off, because they wouldn't want to spoil their focus on poker. They'd just use him as a urinal, fill him with their beer-piss. House's mouth opens, he swallows, thinking about being safe under the table, being used, being useful. Being filled. He would belong to the group.

No. No. He wants to belong to Wilson. He can hear the voices speaking, but he can't pick Wilson's out from them. He cries silently in the dark. He wants to be Wilson's.

He's at the game again, his hands tied together, tethered to Wilson's chair. Sometimes Wilson's hand comes down and pets his hair. Wilson is focussed on the game, he's not paying much attention to House. No one is. House is naked and his ass has been whipped and plugged, but Wilson can have him any time, and right now Wilson's playing poker. Then House hears: Wilson is staking not money but House. Not blow jobs or casual fucks, that the poker group can have for the asking, like a beer or a coffee. Wilson is betting House's ownership. The others are talking about the value of the stake. How good House is at being fucked. How much discipline he needs to keep him in line. He starts thrashing and tugging at the bonds, but he can hardly move. House starts to hyperventilate. He doesn't want to be taken away by a stranger, he doesn't want to lose Wilson, but he never had Wilson: he doesn't want Wilson to lose _him_. The bonds are tightened. A hood is dropped over his head leaving him in darkness. Open or closed eyes, he can't tell. He is crying, not even able to hear the stakes go up, listening as a hand he can't see is played without him, and people he can't hear are talking about his worth, and Wilson is betting his House on the turn of the cards.

He hears voices through the hood. They're leaving. One of them is taking House with him. House opens his mouth in a silent protest, arching his back, the plug pressing into him, tears hot on his face under the hood. He hears them laughing. The door opens. Closes.

Light breaks in. House isn't hooded. Wilson is there. He's smiling. He looks excited and pleased. He must have won the hand. House is still Wilson's.

Wilson releases him from the cuffs and helps him out of the closet. House sits at Wilson's feet and clings to him. He's rubbing his face against the fabric covering Wilson's thighs and crying. He's Wilson's. He's still Wilson's.

"Good boy," Wilson says. He helps House up. He walks House to the bedroom. He bends House over the bed and pulls his pants and shorts down. He takes out the plug and fits House with an even larger one. He lectures House softly and gently about House's wrongdoings during the week while he paddles him, large heavy strokes, each blow striking the end of the plug. "You've been very good, House. I'm proud of you. Now you understand why you should have gone into the closet when you were told. Three strokes of the cane to help you remember."

House is crying. The paddle has left his bottom stinging hot. Each stroke of the cane makes him scream. Wilson takes out the large plug and leaves him feeling empty. He strips House naked. He rolls House into bed.

"Please," House begs. "Tie me."

Wilson laughs. He tethers House's wrists together in front of him, and pats House on the ass. "I'll be there soon."

It doesn't take Wilson long to get ready for bed. He slides in behind House and puts his arms round him. He shifts and pushes: House is so open that it doesn't take any more preparation for Wilson to get into his ass. House whimpers, happy to have Wilson warm inside him, filling him.

"I love this," Wilson says in House's ear. "All evening, I kept thinking of you, tucked away, just for me." He jerks his hips, spearing House a little deeper, and House lets out a small happy whine. "You're such a good boy," Wilson says, fucking him slowly, warm and good and deep. "Mine."

_tbc, probably!_

_If you liked this you'll probably also like my stalker_** _Tailkinker_**_s Closet stories! Seems we both like putting House in the closet and gingering him up..._


End file.
